Driven by a Devil's Hunger
by Anti-canon
Summary: Castiel is one of the few fallen angels on Earth and he'll do anything to find out about his history, including selling his body to the only people who might have the answers. (Men of Letters/Rentboy AU)


**A/N: This has been a pet project of mine for a little while now and I just couldn't keep it to myself any longer, even though I haven't finished. :P Anyways! This is my shot at a noir-ish kind of story. I've never tried a more plot heavy format, so we'll see how that goes. Erm, you're likely to be a little confused as to the rules of the 'verse in the beginning, but I swear I'll flesh it out! It'll just take a little while to get there.**

* * *

_Sam_

"If you wait out there much longer- you're likely to catch your death."

Sam can't believe he's here.

He fights the urge to turn and flee at the sound of thevoice. Sam knows what he must look like- wool duster heavy with rain, glasses fogged opaque, standing on the gravel path in the middle of the night, stock still for something close to twenty minutes. He turns his gaze to the ground and kicks at a few of the larger rocks, chewing on the inside of his cheek and letting a cigarette butt fall from between his lips—watching the cherry glow quickly die and wondering how in the hell he can be such a coward when it comes to this— be afraid in the face of something much more tame than he's known for years.

Honestly, he's not even sure why he's here _now_, of all times. Unlike so many who are burdened with this business, he's never been one to sate his emptiness in such company. It's a fact of life that with a job like theirs, none of them were quite cut out for monogamy, but that doesn't mean that they don't still crave _intimacy_ like everyone else, Hunters and Men of Letters alike.

Sam's known about this house for close to a year—these kinds of things always manage to get passed around every few months, every region, every collection of men and women. But this one—this one's supposed to be special, something that is nigh impossible to come by, and for all the shit they've been put through on the account of the supernatural, there's still a novelty to it that can't be ignored. See, this knocking shop is supposedly home to one of the rarest creatures on this earth, and being of a people who make their life knowing, understanding, and categorizing such things, the allure was always expected to get the better of him.

Tonight it finally did.

Tonight, after losing two of his own charges, after having his loneliness finally come crashing down around his ears, after doubting himself for the first time in a long time, he's due for a little reassurance, in whatever form that may come. He grinds the smoking butt with the heel of his shoe and strides up onto the stairs, wincing as the rotten boards creak, noticing for the first time what a shanty he's come to.

Tucked away, between and behind two office buildings, it can't be seen from the street, though it's completely unassuming even if it could. The house, generously speaking, is a hodge podge of tin and soft wood—weeds with blooms growing out the crevices, a bird's nest perched precariously in the corner of the gutter, and a small rusted lantern with a red bulb set out on the porch (no doubt the source of all the gnats that've given cause for the rickety screen door hinged over the heavy wooden one now propped open). Sam wipes his shoes on the Welcome mat— no matter— and shakes out his jacket before stepping inside, sweeping a critical eye over the acidic green shag carpet clashing so harshly with the vibrant orange linoleum countertops in the kitchenette at the back.

Standing over the stove, a smaller man sways back and forth while minding a sauce pan, quietly whistling a melancholy tune. His hair is dark and messy— so askew it can't have been combed for days, and yet, not dirty or greasy in any sense. A pair of ragged jeans hang dangerously low on his slender frame- the legs too long and the hips too wide, but somehow so perfectly fitting. His torso is bare and Sam can't hold back the small, awed gasp that sneaks out his lungs when he sees them. Stretched out across the majority of his back and shoulders, an inked outline of feathers seems to shimmer and writhe along with his movements. The set of wings look tattered and furled— clumps missing here and there— and Sam so badly wants to run his fingers along their edges to see if the lines smooth.

"If you'd please—" The man glances back at him and nods— gesturing behind Sam's shoulder with a small, not impolite, smile. When Sam looks behind him, he realizes he'd left the door open and he ducks his head, stepping over to close it up and hang his jacket on the hook fastened to its back. "Not all of us are dying for a cold and this room traps a draft with an appalling sense of vim." The man turns back to his pot for a moment, scraping his spoon loudly across the bottom, before taking it off the heat and sidling over to the counter- chewing his bottom lip as he carefully pours out the dark liquid into two ceramic mugs— mesh filters balanced over their tops. "Tea?"

Sam takes a moment to recognize he's being addressed— far too caught up in this spectacularly mundane exhibition—and stutters forward uncertainly. "You drink tea?"

The man looks up at him from beneath his lashes, expression playful, but chastising. "Yes. I drink tea, I wear clothes, I fuck men for modest amounts of money. As power hungry as you assume my brethren to be—for me, shock and awe grows old, fast." The man crosses into the living room carefully balancing a mug in each hand, placing them on the wobbly coffee table, before dropping down onto the wicker couch behind it. He takes a sip from one of the mugs, nonchalant as only the truly self-secure can be, resting his right ankle along his left knee. "The only questions of what I "_can and cannot do"_ that I wish to hear will come later in the night, when your nerve has been resolved."

Sam swallows thickly, once, before nodding a little too enthusiastically and moving to sit across from him. The only other seat in the tiny living area is a worn, brown leather recliner— holes in the back of the upholstery and springs squeaking as he sits, but surprisingly enough, it's thoroughly comfortable. Sam smiles shyly, undoing the buttons on his cuffs and rolling up his shirtsleeves before reaching for his own cup, sniffing inquisitively at the steam and then taking a deep draft, shivering as it goes down.

"Like it? Cinnamon-orange with a generous spoonful of honey. It's one of my favorites for a cloudy morning." The man lifts his mug to his lips and smiles playfully before shrugging. "I figured you could use a little since you'd rather catch pneumonia than come inside my house."

Sam splutters around another mouthful, wiping away his spittle with the heel of his palm and feeling the tips of his ears burn. "I've never done this before…" He swirls the dregs of his tea in the bottom of the mug, idly watching the stray leaves swirl in the bottom, taking a second to realize what that actually sounds like. "Paid for it, I mean! I've _had _sex before, just never with a prostitute… or—er- escort." He screws his eyes tightly shut and wishes to be anywhere but here at the moment, scratching at his scalp and running a shaking hand through his hair.

He doesn't hear the amused chuckle from the other side of the room, or the soft shuffle of clothes when the other man gets up, but when a delicate kiss is pressed to the tip of his nose, his own shuddering breath sounds exaggerated in the small room. "You Men of Letters, always so uptight and nervous." The other man sounds exasperated, but fond as he takes the mug from Sam's hands and puts it down behind him, scooting forward on his knees to rest between Sam's shins. He takes Sam's jaw in one hand, gentle but firm, and brings his face forward, placing chaste pecks against his closed lips and humming delightedly. "Lucky for you— I've _always_ liked to kiss andthat _always_ seems to wind people down." His free hand skims down Sam's neck, chest, and hips, coming to rest on the outside of his thigh.

"Do you take a lot of men… like me?" Sam can't help that he's stalling, really he can't. It's just, that this isn't at all what he'd been expecting. This man, though he's not truly one, seems so caring and empathetic. He's so… real.

The man seems to only just refrain from rolling his eyes, dropping his hand from Sam's chin and sitting back on his haunches. "Men of Letters, Hunters, even a witch or two has shared my bed. If that's going to be a problem then you're going to have to leave."

Sam's eyes widen and he starts to backpedal wildly, shaking his head back and forth. "No! No, that's not what I meant… It's just—" He rubs the back of his neck and looks down and away. "I never would have thought—a lot of the men I work with—We're all quite dedicated you see, and…" He laughs nervously and covers his face with his hands, feeling like he might actually choke on his own embarrassment. "Can we just start this from the beginning? I'm Sam, Sam Harvelle." Sam holds out his hand and waits with bated breath as the other man eyes him critically for several long seconds.

Slowly, carefully he takes Sam's hand and begins to shake it. "Most men that come into my company don't really care much for exchanging pleasantries or names… Somehow I wouldn't be surprised to find out that's your real one." The other man lets go of Sam's hand and quirks an eyebrow, looking something between amused and patronizing. He waits, silently, staring for another few seconds before standing and carrying the mugs back to the sink. "I'm Castiel, in any case. If lore is to be believed I was once the angel of Thursday, though that's clearly not who I am now."

Sam can't help the thrill of excitement to have it so easily confirmed, to not have had to try and wheedle it out of the man—Castiel. An honest to God fallen angel, right here, underneath his nose all this time. There have been hundreds cast out over the course of time, but all too often they wither away without the presence of their grace. An occasional few have been known to redeem themselves— prove that they're worthy to ascend and gain back their father's good nature. It's assumed that this is what they all yearn for, what they spend their years on Earth striving for, but looking at Castiel now, Sam gets the feeling that might not always be the case.

"And before you ask—" Sam startles out of his musings, blushing when he notices that Castiel surely must have caught him staring off into space. "I don't remember anything of my time before. I've spent twenty-five good, long years here in the company of people that I respect and admire. For me that is enough." Sam's really not too sure what to say to that, liking to think that he wouldn't have been so invasive and personal as some of the others probably have been, but knowing in his heart that he probably wouldn't have been any better.

Castiel shifts his weight from foot to foot— waiting— his hips canting, teasingly, this way and that, as he stays back in the kitchenette area. "If you've come here simply to talk you're not doing a very good job of it, and I'm afraid to disappoint you in that I've never been much of a conversationalist myself." He gives a small, self-deprecating shrug and crosses his arms, leaning up on the balls of his feet. "I'm sure your innocent curiosity is well-received elsewhere, but here and now, I am less than enthusiastic about how the night has gone."

Sam can't help but scoff, unused to such frankness, especially by someone who is, essentially, a salesmen. "I'm sorry that I don't quite meet your standards!" He wipes roughly at his mouth and sits forward on the recliner, perching on its edge and clapping his hands together. "Why don't you _tell _me how these encounters usually go?" He raises his brows, honestly thinking he's gained some ground when Castiel just gives another shrug and ruffles his hair, shameless.

"Generally the second they get in the door the other men have their hands all over me. It helps that this body is slim and short— they like being able to throw me around, have an illusion of control. I don't usually exhibit my power— in their minds fallen means frail." Castiel starts to chew on his bottom lip, though Sam can't tell if it's from remembered anxiety or passion. "The clothes never stay on long. Generally I'm naked before we even get to my room. Most guys just want some hungry frottage and good head but the ones who fuck don't take much more time. Like I said— I'm not usually here for the company. I'm the means to an end. They come, they clean up, they go."

Castiel looks lost for just a moment before a small smile starts to ghost over his lips and one of his hands comes up to trace, ever so lightly, across the thatch of hair leading down into his jeans. "There's a very rare few who like it when I get off, who'll take the time and effort to lay with me." He chuckles, softly, gaze far off in a memory. "They like to be fed and soothed and coaxed into the room. We kiss." He closes his eyes and his free hand comes up to touch his lips as he starts to hum that same, sad tune. Eventually he comes back to himself and his hands fall away. He looks over at Sam and his eyebrows furrow. "What sort of man do you want to be?"

Honestly, Sam doesn't know how to answer that question. He's always been a little bit more of a romantic than most people he knows, but to act that way towards a complete stranger? He can't get an honest read on this Castiel, never even coming close to pinpointing what he's going to say or do next. He doesn't know whether that's a trait that comes with being in his line of work, with being a fallen angel, or just with Castiel himself. Sam wants to say that the other man is just throwing himself out there— wholly and unself-conscious, but he's wary that it's some kind of act meant to draw him in and drive others away. He's always had the desire to see the best in others— to implicitly give them the benefit of the doubt- and his own trust— but with all that he's seen, he never has the luxury.

After the silence has gone on for far too long, Castiel gives a weary sigh and lets his shoulders droop, turning towards the back of the house where a small dining nook has been made into a bedroom. He heads towards it, unbuttoning his jeans and letting them crumple to the floor as he makes his way to the full-sized bed, dressed in cool blues and greys. He stops at the entryway, placing a hand on the arch and looking over his shoulder, eyes bored, completely unfazed by his own nudity. "Come or don't, just get on with it." Clearly done with what little posturing he had been attempting, he continues to saunter into the dark room, scratching his lightly furred ass on the way and then unceremoniously throwing himself down onto the mattresses.

Sam would like to say that the solution to his anxiety and great moral dilemma came from a great epiphany, that he had a moment of enlightenment that showed him exactly what to do and how to go about it, but in the end, it was just an unerringly human sense of lust that swayed his decision. He couldn't even remember the last time that he got any, and if the rumors were true, having an _angel _was, quite simply, transcendental. Just seeing Castiel, bare, waiting, had been more than enough to get his rusty motor going, and with a thick swallow, he finally stood from his chair and slowly started making his way over.

As he went, he toed off his shoes, loosened his tie and left it hanging from the back of a chair, unbuttoned his crisp, white dress shirt, and tossed his black leather belt across the floor. Leaning in the doorway, taking in the prone form on the bed for just a moment, Sam let himself go and fell into the fantasy of it. It was all too easy to imagine himself home late from work, having a glass of something strong to release the tension, before undressing and fondly watching his dear lover sleep—too weary to wait up all the night.

Stepping down into the alcove, he lets his button-down fall from his shoulders before crawling on all fours across the bed, gently brushing Castiel's bangs out of his face with the tips of his fingers, smiling when his eyes flutter open. His heart clenches instantly, not minding his hesitations. Castiel's voice is soft and gruff when he whispers, "Hey." and the smile he returns is shy, falling into the part, not missing a beat. Sam can't help but think, he really is quite good at what he does, with admiration.

He takes a deep breath before leaning down and letting their lips brush again, tentative, exploring. Castiel hums pleasantly, contentedly, pushing himself up on his elbows to meet the contact. A curious kind of relief rushes over Sam at the quiet intimacy and he pulls away to pluck at the hems of his undershirt, peeling it off and throwing it away in one clean movement. Castiel's eyes slide over the newly bared skin, pausing at each of the tattoos he comes across before sitting all the way up and reaching out steady fingers to trace the words along his hip, then rush up to rest on the star inked over his heart.

He looks up at Sam through his lashes after a beat, curious, but carefully withholding. "Long day?" He ducks his head right after he asks it and goes back to fingering the deep black lines, biting his lip and inching steadily closer.

Sam finds himself nodding, fervently, the words sticking in his throat. "The kind you hope never to have, but know is always just around the corner." He runs a hand across Castiel's shoulder, along the nape of his neck, and into the dark, lush locks, all awry. He gently combs out a few of the knots, avoiding eye contact too, before thumbing at the other man's cheek. "But I don't want to think about that." His throat clicks when he swallows and their eyes dart to meet each other's, a dense, but not uncomfortable hush falling over the room. "Make me forget."

* * *

It's got to be into the morning hours now—the oppressive grey fog of earlier turned to a more pleasant, misty blanket across the city. Sam can't help the pained whimper that blows past his lips as he arches off the bed, hips gyrating, chest so tight he can hardly breathe, cock so sensitive the pleasure has given away to hot pins and needles. Castiel runs his hands up his flanks, like he's soothing a spooked horse, while taking him deeper, nuzzling into the nest of curls below Sam's belly.

All coherent thought was lost something like an hour ago and all that Sam can see, smell, hear, is sex. His body is thrumming like a live-wire, nerves short-circuited, throat raw, muscles trembling, overwhelmed. There's spunk on his stomach and chest, between his thighs, dried in the crack of his ass. There're red scratches running parallel down his back and lovebites sucked into his hips and inner thighs and the backs of his shoulders. He shuts his eyes against it all and lets his hands run down to grip at the creases between his hips and thighs as he weakly thrusts up into the heat of Castiel's mouth, mewling pathetically as he comes again, feeling tears prick at the corners of his eyes.

He's not even sure if any semen came out that time and he collapses back onto the sheets, curling into himself. Distantly, he hears a rustling somewhere behind him, but he can't be bothered to register what it might be, as he simply tries to catch his breath. A few seconds later Castiel pops over his shoulder, pressing the filter of a cigarette between Sam's lips and holding up a lighter, waiting until the other man leans forward to start flicking at its switch. Sam's honestly amazed he has the dexterity for it and takes a deep drag the second the tip goes up.

The nicotine floods through his system and he feels as though someone is breathing him back to life, inflating his used up body. When he lets the smoke spill back out his mouth, he feels strong enough to stretch out, push the soiled covers to the floor with his feet, and place his free hand behind his head. "_Jesus Christ."_

Beside him, Castiel snorts and scratches at his scalp, eyes closed. "_No, _it's Castiel, remember? That daddy's boy would never dare dream to take you for a ride like this."

The laughter that bursts out his own mouth takes Sam by surprise and he covers it by leaning over the edge of the bed to flick his ashes onto the hardwood floor, taking another long inhale before coming back up to puff smoke rings at Castiel. "You think you're pretty clever, don't you?"

Castiel only smiles and shrugs, burrowing under what sheets are left and then turning on his side, facing Sam. "That depends…"

"Depends on what?" Sam's still a little high off the endorphins, the nicotine, the sheer selfish pride that he was finally able to get release, and doesn't notice the shift in mood— the way Castiel pulls into himself and starts putting up a wall.

"Depends on whether or not you're really as good as they say."

Sam pauses, cigarette halfway to his lips, and turns his head, slowly, to catch Castiel's eye. "What do you mean?"

Castiel's face is carefully blank, all his human mannerisms cleared away as he lays stock still, voice scarily steady. "I don't take money as payment. I take promises—favors." Sam pinches out his menthol with the tips of his fingers and rolls onto his side, brow furrowing as his stomach gives a small lurch. "Nothing bad—nothing dangerous. Usually just information, research, updates. I won't tell you what they're for and you can't ask."

Sam thinks about arguing against it, not having been told the price before, feeling like he's been backed into a corner, like this is some kind of blackmail, but as Castiel continues to stare him down the air in the room grows thick with the smell and taste of ozone and Sam swears he can hear it crackle. All at once, there is a sudden, vast enormity to the man beside him, the kind of depth that should only be ignored at your own peril. Pursing his lips into a tight frown, he gives an even tighter nod.

With that, Castiel settles back into himself, the tenseness dissipates, and the angel rolls onto his other side, turning away. A half dozen rumpled feathers stick to his skin before drifting down onto the bed, black as the hair on his head, shimmering like oil. Sam only barely contains his gasp, some of the ink on Castiel's back having smudged, sweat washing it away.

He silently files away all the information from tonight, and hopes it was worth the visit.

* * *

_Castiel_

There's a certain level of comfort you don't allow yourself to reach with clients— that's what you tell yourself at least.

Whistling softly as you toss a bowl of apples, lemon juice, and brown sugar, chest clenching tightly every time you think about who it's for, you ignore the fact that it's a boldfaced lie. An honest truth, a whole truth, is that you have to tell yourself certain things to get through this life, set goals and rules and guidelines— accept certain "facts of life" and just know that nothing will ever go according to plan. There's a whole mess of things that you've made up for yourself, things about where you're from, why you're here, what certain knowledge is worth and the acceptable lengths to go to get it.

Everyone has different truths and different ways to live their life. Yours might be a little more on the fringes, but that doesn't make it any less valid. That's a statement you desperately want to believe is right, is accurate, but in the end, you're just as unsure as with all the others. In any case, it's one you've grown accustomed to, if not content with, and you've learned to love the small things.

Like the nights a freckled young Hunter rolls into town and holds you tight, kisses you soft, teases you shortly, and hums to you good and long—sad little tunes that make your eyelids flutter and your toes clench. Pulling down a glass dish from the open shelves, lining it with buttery pastry, and pouring the filling inside, you try your best to tamp down the butterflies in your stomach. You lay crosshatched strips of dough across the top, just like he likes, and turn to the oven when the burner phone on the counter starts to buzz. What little control you'd had slips instantly and with a little leap in enthusiasm, you toss the pie on the rack, shut the door with your hip, and grab at the cell.

All the fervor dies quickly when you see the name 'Bobby' pixelated, jarring, and appropriately black, flashing in the little window. You hesitate to flip it open, suddenly self-conscious of where you are, what you're doing, the state you're doing it in. Your arms fold across your chest impulsively, shrinking in on yourself, ashamed.

The phone continues to ring, not simply going to voicemail and giving you an out. Jerkingly, you cross over to the living room and perch on the couch, scooting back onto it and bending your knees up to your chest as the seconds stretch on. Finally, biting in your lip hard enough to draw blood, you flick it open and bring the earpiece to your head, whispering, "Pop?"

"God _dammit _Castiel."

"You really shouldn't take his name in vain."

"I'll do whatever I damn well please, take a cue from your sorry little ass." You wince, and if possible, curl even tighter into yourself—begin picking at an errant splinter in the couch.

"Sorry Bobby." You are, really, wholly, truthfully. It's just—

"Instead of having to always apologize, why don't you ever try an' just do the right thing the first time?" You hang your head and blink back tears. Always a disappointment.

"It's a predisposition, by nature a bad son… remember?" The words hurt to say, but a lot less than they would have to keep inside.

"That's not—why you always gotta turn things around like that? You know I didn't mean it like that." Instantly you feel guilty, selfish, sparing your own feelings over his. This man, he is everything. He is the only reason you're still here.

"Sorry Bobby." You're a terrible conversationalist, always have been, always will be. You hunch your shoulders when he simply lets out a heavy sigh and you can imagine him there at home, heaving himself into the stupid, worn armchair that he spends the majority of his days in. You can't help but smile, thinking he'd be reaching for a bottle of something strong with those damned plastic pincers you bought right after his accident—a crutch he took to with a surprising amount of gusto after the initial belligerence. You wish you could say the same thing about the electric stair seat that he almost never uses and a self-help book, you had found to be quite useful yourself, entitled _Your New Normal, _which you're fairly confident is now keeping his dining room table level.

The very thought of the garage— of the house set at the center of a labyrinth of totaled cars, your own amateur iron sculptures dotting the perimeter, without the people and pollution of the city— makes you practically nauseous with homesickness. Suddenly, you want to be small again, curled up on Bobby's lap, drowned in an old oil-stained t-shirt, dozing as he tells gruff stories about falling stars and little princes. You don't want to be alone anymore, don't want the weight of not knowing, nor the knowledge you've so painstakingly gained. Like Eve, you gave up your innocence so easily, without a backward glance, and you regret it every day.

Clutching the cell to your ear and a pillow to your chest, you can't feel guilty for having missed almost every word he's said, or for ignoring the ones that come after, because for this small moment, having his indirectly worried tone washing over you, you can pretend that you're still there, that he can still walk, that you're still his true son.

* * *

It's late by the time a pair of headlights flash through the front windows and though the pie had gone cold some hours ago and your good mood went with it, you still saunter to the door, the pale blue fringe of panties peeking out your soft grey sweats. But instead of being met with the dull roar of a hulking muscle, a compact classic purrs gently up the gravel, cherry red and comically undersized for the man inside of it. You can't keep the disappointment from your voice when you call out his name and as he steps out of the car a confused kind of hurt flickers there too.

"Were you expecting someone else?" Sam looks just as dapper as always, if not deliberately more casual than on his first visit. Again the crisp white button down, but now with the sleeves rolled up. Immaculate brown wool trousers with matching suspenders and scuffed penny loafers emulate the deep russet of his hair— pulled loosely back— and eyes, made larger by his thick frames. The complete package is so… delectable you should want to eat him right up—instead you turn back into the house to try and rein in the sulking before he gets inside.

After a few long seconds, you hear Sam follow, shutting the door behind him. You should turn and greet him, make him feel at home, rub his feet and kiss his nose and make him loose with affection. You had the feeling, last time when he left, your explicit instructions in a manila envelope tucked into his jacket pocket, that he wasn't going to be just blown over like all the others. He had questions and worse, a conscience. Really, you know that ingratiating yourself to him, smoothing away all the rough edges left by your demands is priority, but you can't seem to care.

"Oh! Oh, wow. Did you make this yourself?" A hot surge of unbidden anger courses through you lightning quick and you can practically feel your hackles rising, whipping around to find Sam rooting around in the apple pie you left on the counter, without a thought.

"That was not meant for _you." _It's a stupid thing to get worked up about, and maybe that only serves to make it all the worse, knowing that the response is excessive and uncalled for, but you can feel your eyes flash as you rush forward and push Sam up against the cupboard. His eyes go wide and for just a moment he's frozen with shock, but then he pushes back, kicking at your feet as he does, and taking the both of you to the ground.

"What the hell is wrong with you?" His voice is raw as he fists a clump of your hair in one hand and locks your wrists with the other. Already the fight is dying out of you and you feel foolish, shameful, reckless. You let your head thunk back harshly against the cool linoleum and close your eyes, trying to breathe deeply and get ahold of some semblance of control. Talking to Bobby really threw you, set this fragile reality you'd set up akilter, and when a certain someone hadn't managed to show up, well… it just wasn't a good night for a client. You should've put out the light, but just in case _he'd _just gotten sidetracked, hit a rough patch of weather or something, you'd wanted the door open.

You're regretting it now, as you eventually come to do with so many decisions these days, but it's not Sam's fault, and even if you feel like smiting him just to blow off some steam, you've really got to learn and keep a lid on these things. You can feel him breathing heavily just above you, knees still straddling your torso, and you wonder if you've already irrevocably fucked things up in only two visits. New record.

Once you've got ahold of yourself again, at least as much as you can manage, you open your eyes and sigh frustratedly when you see a single feather floating back in the living room. "You done throwing a tantrum?" Several strands of hair have fallen out of the once neat tie, giving Sam a harried look, and though you're certain he can't have more than a few small bruises on his back, he's definitely doubting your morality—probably in his eyes, your humanity. They always measure the creatures they meet against themselves, as if they're the standard. You roll your eyes and try not to push him further, but still bristle when he shakes his head slowly, disappointed, like you're a particularly unruly child.

"Why, are you planning on punishing me? You into that Samuel— want me to be your bad little boy?" You wriggle suggestively beneath him and are pleased to see his cheeks flush and his mouth turn into a guilty frown, even while his pupils blow wide and his cock twitches against your stomach.

"Stop that." His eyebrows furrow, but the command is weak and you arch weakly against him, only putting in enough effort to make it a show.

"Make me." You bite at your lips and buck your hips, gasping with just the right amount of exaggeration when you feel him start to harden. "C'mon, you know you want to. Bend me over your knee, teach me a lesson, big daddy." He chokes and splutters at that, angrily slamming your wrists back against the floor and leaning further over you, eyes set aglow.

He's starting to look just a little bit wild, and you know you've just about got him. "I said stop." You flutter your eyelashes and push up to meet him, stopping just short of his lips. You tilt your head and pout just the slightest, brushing the tips of your noses together and chasing his shallow, little breaths.

"I know you want me…" You run the tip of your tongue against his lips. "You're so thick and heavy…" You grind up into him. "Show me—show me how much you want me…" You scrape your teeth along his chin and sigh, catching his wide eyes for a moment before licking again at his mouth, teasing and kittenish. "Take me."

* * *

Your knees are going to be bruised and blistered come morning, but with Sam draped across your back, rutting against you like the very animal he's imitating, the notion doesn't seem to matter.

He's snorting like a horse as he pistons in and out of you, ridiculously long cock splitting you open and making you see stars at the end of each thrust. His balls slap against your thighs with a resounding thwack thanks to the sweat, and provide a certain grotesquely erotic lewdness to the soundtrack of your consummation. He's been going at it for the better part of an hour and you think that if he doesn't just get on with it and make you come, you're going to burst at the seams.

One of his hands fumbles along your chest and shoulders before tangling up in your hair and wrenching you back. The pain makes you wince for a moment before he assaults you with his tongue—sloppy and wet and hungry. Mostly he just licks and breathes heavily on your face and for a brief second you find yourself wondering if he's always this brutish in bed, if you bring it out in him, or if it's just been too long since he really let go and got lost in the baser acts. Then he strikes your prostate again and your thighs quiver and you whine against his tongue.

He chuckles breathlessly, full of pride, and instead of pulling back again, drives even deeper, gyrating his hips and using his free hand to pull apart your ass cheeks, trying to stuff in every last centimeter. "Think you're—" _thrust _"so clever—" _thrust_ "Don't you?" _thrust_ "Well—" _thrust _"Bad little boys—" _thrust _"Don't get to come." He bites and sucks a huge mark into the corner of your jaw, slapping your ass and groaning loudly at the sound.

So maybe you'd been a little _too _spot on with his kink, maybe he'd been so consumed by the act that his pillow talk had amounted to nothing but dirty words and condescending remarks. Still, you got him unhinged, so it'll just take a little fine tuning to hit the right nerve next time, to get him loose enough not to mind his words, but still present to give out useful information. You feel tears prick in your eyes when he groans, low and wrecked, and spills himself deep inside your belly, twitching and jerking behind you, but keeping with his promise and not laying a hand anywhere near your leaking dick.

It's gonna be a long night.

* * *

_Dean_

"Dean Winchester, you are incorrigible." Cas is everything he remembers, everything he was dreaming of and hoping for. He, subconsciously, knows that the fond smile and the gentle fingers and the quavering voice are most likely an act, a skill that the fallen angel taught himself to sucker guys just like Dean, but at the moment, he just cannot find a fuck to give.

The other man's brows are pinched tight and a frown puckers his lips, but his eyes are soft and his shoulders shake with a laugh when Dean tickles his ribs. "Mmm, Cas. You know it turns me on when you talk dirty to me." Dean only lets go long enough to shrug off his leather jacket before hooking his hands right below the swell of Castiel's ass, and lifting, lurching forward and using the momentum to toss the both of them into the armchair.

Cas bounces lightly, but clings to his neck and lets his legs fall open, breath hitching when Dean grinds down into him. "_Someone _missed me." Dean simply hums in reply and starts nosing along the column of Cas' throat, dipping his fingertips below the waist of Cas' pants and smiling when he feels the soft cotton beneath.

"Aaand…. did you miss _me_?" Dean nips at the angel's earlobe and traces up with the tip of his tongue. "Hm? Just a little? Just my sweet, sweet ass and my big, strong thighs?" Cas twists his head around to catch Dean's lips for a slow, languid kiss before pulling back and locking their gazes.

"Don't all the girls?" His lids drop, his cheeks flush, and Dean can feel his palms clam up against his neck. "Swooning's just a part of the package." He chews the inside of his cheek and shrugs meekly. His eyes flick back and forth every few seconds, nervous, but still curious.

Dean sighs, sits back on his haunches, just breathing for a moment. Slowly, he starts to shed his shoes, his shirts, every damned article that shackles him to his life, until he's naked, like he only can be for Cas. "Now, baby, I already said I was sorry for coming in a week late. We lost two guys Thursday last and I had to pick up their case. I woulda called, but for some damn reason, you can't handle a cell phone."

Cas ducks his head and smiles sheepishly, still only meeting Dean's eyes for a brief second. "You admitted yourself, phone sex would only get you distracted."

Dean narrows his eyes and purses his lips, trying his best not to smile right back. "_That… _is not the point. The point is that it wasn't my fault, sure as hell wasn't my choice, and that I woulda much rather been here, fogging up the windows with my favorite little boy blue." At that, Dean resettles himself in Cas' lap, burying his fingers in the angel's dark hair and pressing their foreheads together. "Aint nowhere I feel more myself."

* * *

It's only later, when they're covered in sweat and saliva and spunk, that Cas admits another man ate his pie.

Dean immediately feels jealousy turn toxic in his stomach and he clenches his fingers into Cas' hips tight enough to leave bruises. He's not stupid, not nearly as dimwitted as all his handlers think him to be. All those punk-ass Men of Letters, with their prim suits and strict codes, never did understand there was more than one way to be a clever guy. Still, doing favors for Cas, bringing him names and locations and sometimes fingers and bones never did feel like he was paying for it, never felt like anything but the only way Dean knew how to treat a person right. Most times it simply slipped his mind that the red light outside Cas' door was more than just a beacon to call him home.

They'd talked about it before, about how, even if maybe Cas treated him differently, stopped asking for and expecting of, there were other men he didn't feel that way about, couldn't take in nor leave behind. Just as Dean always had to leave, had a need in his heart to keep other people safe and risk his life doing it, so Cas had a calling that made him do things nearly as unspeakable. Didn't mean Dean had to like it, didn't mean he didn't occasionally have to teach a John a lesson, or drive him the hell outta dodge. Just meant, he kept his nose out of things he knew he wouldn't like, and accepted this bed was never made just for two.

Even so, this guy was new, and apparently didn't know the rules about minding what wasn't his. Though Cas hadn't given him any information 'sides his station as a handler (and teasingly, though Dean didn't find it really all that funny, the ample size of his endowment), he was determined to find the bitch out and make an introduction. Dean didn't need a fancy ass education to get his work done, and get it done right, and he sure as hell didn't need a mutant dick to please his man, though in his opinion, what he was working with was nothing to scoff at either. He told Cas as much, and only felt his determination grow when the angel laughed softly and kissed him, long and slow.

The rest of the night was meant to be spent in silence, the both of them more than comfortable enough by now to share the same space with complete lack of inhibition or judgment, hence Dean's belief that the need to call 'Safety' was completely obsolete and just too much effort when he was this blissed out. Cas didn't quite agree, if the way he wrinkled his nose, and kicked at Dean's shins as he rolled over to show his back, was anything to go by. "Dean! Really, what are you—five?"

He's wondering if attempting a dutch oven would come out as childishly cute or just obnoxious, grabbing onto Cas' shoulder and lifting up the sheets just in case, when he takes notice for the first time. It doesn't hit him straight off what's wrong, just the uncomfortable itch that something's not where it's supposed to be. Dean goes quiet, the amusement gone in an instant, as he tries to peg the cause of the sensation. Cas hasn't noticed yet, a light-hearted tirade rushing in one ear and out the other.

And then it hits, when Cas realizes he's been quiet for too long and turns to look over his shoulder. The inky feathers shimmer and shift and Dean can taste something acrid on his tongue. "_Jesus, _Cas. What did you get yourself into?" The angel looks worried for a moment, turning further to look Dean full in the face, but going stiff when the hunter's hands hold him still, fingers tracing over his tell-tale marks. "How many did you lose?"

"That's not of import." Cas pulls away and grabs at the sheet, pulling it tight around his shoulder. Anger comes first, as it almost always does with Dean, but before he can do anything he'll come to regret, concern washes over him, dowsing the flames and choking off his air.

"You gotta talk to me babe. What happened?" He reaches out, tentatively, but holds on firm when Cas doesn't pull away. "Just—just promise me you weren't in any danger. You promised… you promised you wouldn't do anything stupid while I was away. I know I'm just a 'fragile little human' but I said I'd back you up and—"

"Dean!" Cas sits up and takes ahold of his hands, lacing their fingers together and pulling them into his lap. "I didn't do anything stupid, well, at least I don't think. There weren't any fights, not really. I just… I got carried away. It doesn't matter. I'm okay, you're okay. That's it, that's all I need."

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, breathes heavy and slow, before scooting forward, putting their heads together. "How can you say that's not important? Cas, what happens when you run out, huh? All the evidence points to a relinquishing of grace. Every time you show off, every time you misbehave, you get a little more human." For all that Dean says he's no good with children, he's got the I'm-not-angry-I'm-just-disappointed look down pat, and employs it liberally whenever Cas tries to push aside his worry.

"Who says that's a bad thing?" Cas sighs before tilting his head, slotting their mouths together and kissing him, dry and sweet. "I can think of worse things." Gently, he pushes Dean back down into the mattress, snaking a hand beneath the sheets and between the Hunter's legs as he goes. "There's even a few I've met that I don't mind so much…" He smiles as he wriggles down between Dean's legs and starts to suck raspberries on the inside of his thighs.

"Gee Cas, tell me how you really feel." Dean rolls his eyes, even manages to huff indignantly, before Cas' head disappears fully beneath the sheets and soft suckling sounds start to fill the air. "Th-this isn't over yet y'know? You can't—ah, fuck!—you can't distract me with sex forever."

The noises halt for just a moment as Cas pops back up, eyes gleaming. "Is that a challenge, Dean Winchester?"

* * *

Needless to say, Dean's late reporting in for assignment the next morning.

Authority figures never did sit well with him, and well, if shower sex with Cas just so happened to also mean pissing off the new boss, then it seemed he'd encountered his very first win-win situation. Expecting another painstakingly written, but shakily delivered speech from whichever pencil pusher they decided to shackle him to this time, he sure as hell wasn't worried about any consequences.

Being in the line of work that he was, he should have known better, should have expected things to go exactly the wrong way, namely not his. But, how exactly, does one see a thoroughly muscled sasquatch in a monkey suit coming? The guy's something like seven feet tall—broad hands, big feet—Dean bristles. "You were due in an hour ago. I was beginning to think you'd already died before we even got started." The asshole rolls his eyes and checks his clipboard, already turning away, dismissive.

"Look here limp dick—"

"We _really _don't have time for this. Reports of possessions in and around Topeka have been flooding in all morning. We're not sure how many demons might have set down, but you're to be on the next caravan out." Without checking to see if Dean'll follow, Sasquatch heads further into the bunker, stopping to peek in on every few stations, offering input, marking charts, giving commendations—the consummate brown-noser.

"I only just got here." Dean tries not to let his disappointment and frustration seep into the words. Cas won't be happy about him leaving without so much as a wave. "Don't you have anyone else who can cover it? You haven't even assigned me a partner." Sasquatch stops, fucking _sighs_, and turns back to look at him.

For a moment Dean doesn't think he's going to get an answer besides the stare, but then Sasquatch pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing up his glasses, and lets his shoulders slump. "I already checked the roster. You've had the most experience with demons out of everyone here—" Dean can feel himself start to inflate, and though he could probably hold back the smug grin if he really tried, he doesn't really want to. Sasquatch immediately takes notice and frowns, shaking his head. "—and you'll be picking up your partner en route. Everything you need to know's in this." He hands over an accordion folder, stuffed to overflowing, and then marches back into an alcove off the main room—probably, Dean thinks, to the Cage. When Sasquatch comes back with two new kits, plastic seals still unbroken, he's sure. Always good to know where the guns are kept.

* * *

Dean's new handler introduced himself over earpiece once he'd already headed out to pick up his new partner. Sasquatch was actually named Sam and after losing his last two Hunters a little over a week ago, he was acting pretty squirrelly—even for a Man of Letters. Begrudgingly, Dean finds himself sympathizing.

It's never easy to lose someone, especially in the line of work. You're always left wondering if something could have been done differently, if it was just bad luck or timing, if it might have been your own fault. It's the kind of thing that makes so many of them high functioning addicts—though the vice can vary from person to person. Drugs, drink, sex, work—too many give too much of themselves to just one thing, and it never does take too long for there to be a problem. No one really talks about it, but they all know it's there.

Dean just offers his condolences, for once employing the manners his mother made sure he learned, and keeps quiet afterwards. He didn't know the two that went down—only that they were young, fresh faced recruits who thought they were gonna make the world a better place. They'd even been promising, or so he'd heard. Smart, strong, good. But their intel was bad, they went in blind, and didn't have a chance of coming out.

The board said it wasn't anyone's fault, said no one could have seen it coming. No one was castigated and Dean was sent in with a few more veterans to clean the whole thing up. They didn't recover any bodies, but he'd heard there was a funeral coming up the next few days. He wondered if Sasquatch would be attending. It was never an easy decision, never easy to know if you'd be welcome or not. For just the moment, he decided to give the guy a break and cranked up the stereo, trying not to wish he was with Cas instead of driving out to the south side to pick up his new partner.

It was gonna be his first in years, and though Dean wished he could say he was pissed off about it, freelancing hadn't really been working out for him. He was abrasive as it is, but always showing up on someone else's case, feeling like he was butting in, getting treated like he was fucking internal affairs, didn't lead to a great track record as far as cooperation goes. He always got the job done—always—but bruised egos and filed complaints followed him like mangy dog.

He pulled up outside a dilapidated duplex, double checked his papers to make sure this shit hole was the right place, and then laid on the horn. The grass was yellow or just plain dead, the air had that distinct mix of factory smog and sewer gas, and Dean was hoping, though not entirely certain, that the guy across the street was pissing off his front porch and not masturbating. He'd heard living outside the base was sketchy as hell, after all it wasn't like this job came with a salary and a pension, but he'd always thought low-budget meant Cas levels of seedy housing, not middle-class ghetto.

He settled back into his seat and resolved to give this Charlie Bradbury dude another three minutes before he up and left— debating on whether or not that was enough time to give his angel a ring and let him know he'd be gone for a few days. Chewing on the inside of his cheek, Dean let out a slow, frustrated breath through his nose, and then muted his earpiece, plucking it out before Sasquatch figured out what he'd done and started ranting on about regulations.

He pulled out his latest burn phone, fresh from his new kit, and dialed the one and only number he had memorized. It rang five times before he picked up, Dean almost having given up, but smiling goofily when he heard the gruff, muffled "H'llo?" from the other side.

"Hey babe, you just getting out of bed? It's almost noon already. If you're that tired you should get to sleep earlier." Dean found himself fiddling with the hem of his shirt, and immediately stopped, flushing at his own behavior.

"Well, whose fault is that—Mr. 'It'll just be a morning quickie!' If forty-five minutes of shower sex is a quickie, I'd hate to see what it means when you take your time." Dean can hear Cas' voice go deeper with lust, and he can just picture the other man lying in bed, sheets caught around his ankles, free hand drifting down towards his pubic hair, eyes still half-closed from sleep.

It makes his jeans grow uncomfortably tight and he has to clear his throat a few times before he can respond. He double and triple checks out his window before licking his lips and pitching his voice low. "Oh, babe. You know I can go all night long. That what you want, huh? Laying on our sides, your ankle curled back around my ass, my fingers holding you open?" Cas moans softly across the receiver, breaking off into a sigh and Dean just _knows _he's started touching himself.

This is exactly why he never calls when he's on a hunt.

Dean lets a hand drift down around his inseam, just teasing for a moment, as he spreads his legs as wide as the car will allow. "I'd fuck you slow and shallow, for _hours. _Just let my cock slip in and out of that sweet, little pucker." Cas' breath hitches and Dean finally lets himself touch the outline of his dick through his jeans. "I'd let you get good and fucking wet for me baby. You know how much I like it when you make slick." Dean can feel a wet spot of his own forming on the denim near his crotch, remembering the first day Cas let him see just how alien angel physiology could be.

He's the only one that's ever tasted that hot fluid, ever fisted a hand in thick black feathers, ever had white, hot light burn against his tongue as Cas orgasmed. It doesn't matter that Cas fell, he's still not human, and when he let Dean see that, the Hunter had known he might just be in love. "I'd scratch your thighs, just like you like, and suck on your ear, and every time you came close, I'd twist your balls until you pulled back."

Dean gives up on the pretense and full-on gropes himself through his clothes, breathing heavy as he throws his head back against the seat. Cas is making wet, mewling noises on the other end, and Dean wonders if he's just tugging at his erection, or if he's got his fingers pushing up inside of himself too. "I'd wait until we were both covered in sweat and slick and were shaking so hard we could barely stay upright. And then…" Dean trails off as he thumbs at his head and shudders at the tacky pre-come that sticks to the pad of his finger.

"Then?" Cas' voice is raw and eager and a full octave lower than usual. It makes Dean quiver and he's so close to creaming his pants like a goddamned teenager, but he just doesn't care. He lets the heavy silence sit for a moment, punctuated by their mirrored heavy breathing and the occasional lewd squelch on Cas' side.

"Then I'd kiss you and—" Dean startles when there's a knock at the window, and freezes with his hand palming his dick. A red-headed woman is peering through the glass with wide, horrified eyes and somehow, he knows that this is the Charlie he was waiting for, knows that this is his brand new partner, fresh from academy training. Dean chokes when he hears Cas coming loudly in his ear, screaming his name.

Really, he should have anticipated his first day back full-time going this badly.


End file.
